


A Thief by Any Other Name

by merelyafacade



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Gen, He's just an asshole really, Language, bad morals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-06-22 14:30:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15583971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelyafacade/pseuds/merelyafacade
Summary: “Cyrion Dark-Stone… My, you’re quite the piece of work, aren’t you? Liar, pickpocket, sewer scum of Riften with the morals of a Daedra and a rotten personality to match. You may think you’ve a strong sword arm but with that puny stature of yours you could be nothing but a thief.  You’re just some half-breed, blue-eyed elf with nothing but a list of burglaries and heists to carry his fame. What pleas do you have against these accusations?”Cyrion smiled at the guard. “I like to consider it a resumé.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I write, and I enjoy squandering 300+ hours of the only life I'll ever have on Skyrim so naturally a fic was bound to happen.
> 
> The dialog and details of this story are heavily inspired by the game. I've literally taken some dialog pieces and mission/plot lines directly from the game to make the story feel as close to the tone of the game as possible. So if something sounds familiar, chances are, it probably is. I've braided my plot in with the game elements so even if you've played some of these missions and whatnot this will still be its own story. 
> 
> So buckle up, my dudes, for here is a tale of a snarky wood elf with a problematic superiority complex. There is no plan for shipping of any kind because, quite honestly, I'm too busy making him an asshole.

Whiterun

“No lollygaggin’!”

Cyrion rolled his eyes at the Whiterun guard and readjusted his quiver as he walked through the city gates. It was just too bad that his assignments never called for any “accidents” with the guards…

“You, sir!”

_Talos almighty… what now?_ Cyrion stopped to face two Redguard warriors.

“Sir, have you seen a Redguard woman?”

“Is that supposed to narrow it down for me?” His gaze drifted to the scimitars that hung from the warriors’ belts.

“Have you seen a Redguard woman here in Whiterun?” the second warrior asked.

Cyrion raised an eyebrow. “I just got here.” _Scimitars were a rare weapon in Skyrim… 60 septims each in good condition…_

“Could you at least keep an eye out for one, then? We’ve received word that the woman we are looking for is somewhere in the city,” said the first.

_Were those rubies inlaid into the hilt?_

“She’s a wanted criminal in Hammerfell,” the other warrior added.

_…He’d heard of one similar that went for over 100 septims last solstice._

“We’re offering 500 septims to the one that turns her in.”

Cyrion snapped his attention away from their swords. “500 even?”

The warriors nodded.

“You should’ve led with that,” he said dryly. “I’ll keep you posted.” He left the two Redguards before they could say anything else. 500 would do nicely to line his pockets. He was only set to make 100 on this job. On a string of dry luck, the Guild’s contracts had only been making chump-change. The coin was getting low, and just like fish in a drying pond, everyone in the Guild could feel it.

Cyrion climbed the steps to the Bannered Mare. 100 for the job, 500 hundred if he found that woman… he eyed the embellished horse on the inn’s sign. … and maybe another 200 if those Redguards decide to stay the night in Whiterun. He could fence those scimitars in less than a week if Vex’s buyer was still burdening Riften with his presence…

He shut the door behind him and dodged a drunken Nord. In the dark, smoky atmosphere of the inn Cyrion considered informing these mead addicts that it was in fact, high noon outside. From the looks of the Mare’s patrons, many of them had to have been knocking back tankards since the early hours of the night. Not that he was going to complain… between the lack of light and incredible level of inebriation of any possible witnesses, Nordic taverns were always easy targets.

Slipping through a back hallway, Cyrion found his way into a back room. _Let’s see. Crates, mead, parchment… ah, there you are._ A small strongbox sat nestled against some books on a shelf. Flipping through his lock picks, Cyrion slid the small files into the keyhole and worked the little lock, using the differences in resistance as a guide, and turned the keyhole until it clicked.

A coin purse, a letter and a small sapphire inhabited the strongbox. Cyrion weighed the purse in his hand, judging its weight. _150 maybe… no 155._ He pocketed the sapphire and the letter. One to be handed to Brynjolf later and one to keep.... With a quiet close of the lid, the strongbox looked unassuming once more.

Cyrion targeted the documents on the desk, singling out the Bannered Mare’s business ledgers.

He slid a long finger down the profit column. “157 septims from sales yesterday? I don’t think so.” Imitating the original handwriting, Cyrion penciled in 155 septim order of Black Briar mead and supplies, making a note that the fictitious shipment had yet to arrive. _Wonderful._ That should keep them busy for a few days…

“Who are you??”

Cyrion turned around. _Nocturnal’s grace…_ A Redguard woman stood before him, dagger drawn and brow knit with determination. He nearly laughed at his luck.

“Are you here to kill me?” the woman demanded.

“No,” he said slowly.

The woman seemed unconvinced.

“Why would I want to kill you?” he ventured.

She hesitated then put the dagger away. “My name is Saadia. There are two men after me. Perhaps you could help.”

Cyrion felt his eyes glaze over as the blasted woman decided to tell him the origin of her predicament in its entirety. Why she decided to trust a trespassing wood elf with her life, only the Divines would know…

“…To ensure the safety of myself and my family, Kematu and his partner needs to be killed. I would be forever grateful should you be the one to take his life.”

“Of course, of course. I’ll take care of it.” Cyrion dodged her attempt to shake his hand and left to wade once more through inn’s intoxicated clientele. Back at the gates the Redguard warriors were still attempting to flag down passersby.

“Do you have that gold _on_ you?” he asked.

“Pardon?” the first warrior narrowed his eyes.

“Do you or do you not have 500 septims on you at this moment?” Cyrion prodded.

His partner laid a hand on the hilt of his scimitar. “Yes…”

“Excellent. I found your woman.”

“What??”

“She’s in the Bannered Mare. Check the kitchen.” Cyrion folded his arms over his chest as the Redguards stormed the inn, disappearing into the darkness inside. They emerged moments later with a struggling Saadia in their grasp.

Dropping her at their feet, one warrior reached into his belt and pulled out a bag of coin. “500 septims as promised, sir. Thank you for your help.”

“How could you?!” Saadia snarled. “I trusted you!!”

“Your mistake.” Cyrion opened the bag and inspected the gold pieces within.

“You heartless mongrel! You traded the lives of seven for mere coin!”

He slipped the bag into his belt. “To be fair, it was you who gave them to me.”

Saadia’s expression fell with hatred and grief as the warriors pulled her to her feet. That was the last he saw of them as he turned and left Whiterun behind.

 

The Cistern

"By the Nines, Dark-Stone..." Brynjolf chuckled, "that's pretty cold."

Cyrion cocked an eyebrow. "If I were in it for the honor I would've joined the Companions." Brynjolf’s eyes widened as Cyrion set the jeweled scimitars on the table. “Ran into their camp on the road here. It was an easy lift; the fools didn’t even sleep with their weapons on them.” He tinkered with pouches of his belt and dumped out a pile of stolen jewelry on the table.

“Vex will be happy.” Brynjolf clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s a good haul. Well done. No casualties?”

Cyrion shrugged it off. “Not directly.”

His superior gave him a tired look. “I can work with that, I guess.” He slid some new mission papers across the table. “With that itchy bow arm of yours I suppose I should feel lucky you don't double-dip with the Dark Brotherhood."

He skimmed over the documents. "I submitted my application last week. They’ll be here to kidnap me any day.".

"Sod off you bastard, I know the Brotherhood hasn't contacted you."

His smirk wore off as he scanned the details of the job. “Pinemoon Cave? A bit more off the beaten path than usual.”

“It’s no different than a normal heist. There’s a large chest of shine in there somewhere surrounded by bandits that someone wants and is obviously too lazy or cowardly to get it themselves.”

“I’ll be back within a fortnight.” Shoving the contracts in his belt,

Cyrion slung his quiver over his shoulder, “provided the Brotherhood doesn’t take me.”

“Provided one of your guild mates doesn’t kill you out of exasperation,” Brynjolf said behind him.

“That was rude, and you know it.” Cyrion called back before leaving the Cistern and heading back out into Skyrim.


	2. Chapter 2

Pinemoon Cave

Cyrion crept silently down the long tunnel, arrow nocked and bow at the ready.

Voices.

Keeping at a crouch, he slid around the corner, settling himself behind some crates. Four different voices... no, five. He glanced over his cover. Two targets were each separate from the others and would be easily picked off. Just behind them sat a large chest. That had to be it, at least if these bandits were keeping with the pattern of storing all their loot in a big, obvious chest.

Five… he could take five men himself if he exploited the element of surprise to the fullest. Wait… were there more voices? Cyrion peeked over the crate to see two more men, arguing angrily about something pertaining to the Vigilantes of Stendarr. He sunk back to the ground. Even on a good day, he couldn’t take seven men on his own without ending up with some serious scars, and being three days out from the nearest town, he couldn’t risk injury. No one had their eye on the chest, perhaps he could sneak over there unseen. It was only a silver necklace he was after anyway. Such a trinket would be easy to carry out quickly.

He waited until the extra two men disappeared back down the hallway then moved from his cover, slinking through the shadows to the chest. Easing open the lid, he dug inside to pull out the large, gaudy silver necklace. He slipped it around his neck when he heard the unmistakable hiss of a sword being unsheathed. Cyrion whipped around to see the bandits eyeing him with surprise. Their astonishment worsened when he released two arrows in rapid succession, each dropping a bandit.

From there he lost himself in a flurry of limbs and steel. Switching to his knives, Cyrion tried to fight his way back to the entrance of the cave. A bandit reached from behind to wrap an arm around Cyrion’s neck but yelped when his fingers brushed the necklace. Cyrion whirled on the man only to see him baring his teeth at the silver. _Fangs._ A long set of pointed incisors fell past the man’s snarled lips.

_Vampire._

He was a vampire.

Cyrion sidestepped him and plunged a dagger into his chest and looked around him. They were _all_ vampires. He realized it now. The red-tinted eyes, the pale skin… They came at him with renewed fury. Each fought hard for the death of their brothers but were careful to avoid the silver jewelry swinging from Cyrion’s throat. They were going to overwhelm him if he didn’t turn the tide soon.

He rolled to avoid a downward blow. Wait… There! Perched precariously on a support beam sat a ceramic oil lamp. _Vampires hate fire._ Cyrion threw his knife, knocking over the lamp and setting ablaze everything within a five-foot radius. The vampires howled in anguish, batting at the flames as the relentless inferno quickly engulfed them. The flames licked greedily at the support beams around the cave. Collapse was imminent. He ducked a flaming board and ran.

_“Thief!!”_ came a roar behind him. Not all of the vampires had succumbed to the flames. But he could not worry about them now. Cyrion ran faster as boards began to crack. The splintering turned into a thunder as the cave around him shook.

Almost there!

Rocks tumbled around his feet. Chaos erupted behind him.

Light! There was light ahead. He could see his freedom!

And then the fire hit a keg of black powder and the blast threw him off his feet, free of the mouth of the cave, and down the mountain to the river below.

 

_Weeks before_

Cyrion rounded the corner and jumped the flight of stone stairs, his head spinning when he hit the pavers. That piss-poor excuse for wine had _not_ been worth it. He was nearly to the city gate. He’d lost the guards directly behind him, but there were sure to be more to come. Though the edges of his vision were blurred, he could make out the city market below him. Ugh, this was the last time he stole alcohol from his target. Just a few more stairs and he could finally rid himself of the maze of masonry that was the city of Markarth.

He flew down his last flight of stairs just as a guard appeared at the bottom, stopping him in his tracks.

“By order of the jarl, stop!” The man hollered. “What’ll it be, _thief?_ ”

Cyrion glowered at the guard. He had no influence in the city yet, mentioning the Guild would do him no good. However, corruption had a way of sneaking into every city, even if the thieves didn’t. Money could be very persuasive.

“How much for you to look the other way?” Cyrion suggested slyly.

“How about you pay off your bounty, and I’ll forget that you just tried to bribe a city guard,” the man told him, the retort echoing slightly in that ridiculous helmet of his.

_“Fine.”_ Cyrion dug into the pouch on his belt and dropped a handful of coins into the guard’s open hand.

“Good. Now keep your hands to yourself. Next time it’s off to Cidhna Mine with you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Cyrion smiled through clenched teeth. “I’ll see myself out.” He jerked a thumb toward the city gate.

“Not so fast, elf.” The guard moved to his side. He frowned. The guard had smelled the Alto wine on his breath. Apparently, the idea of a drunken elf with sticky fingers remaining on his streets didn’t appeal to him. “I’ll escort you out of the city,” the guard demanded gruffly.

“Of course.” Cyrion slowed his walk to keep from stumbling and pretended to have a new interest in the skies. “Trouble with dragons this far west?” he pondered.

“Dragons are always a concern these days,” the guard muttered. “But Markarth has less to worry about than most cities.” He nodded toward the stone buildings, his attention on his precious city instead of his coin purse getting removed from his belt. “Not much dragon fire can do to a city that doesn’t burn.”

“I find it beneficial to always keep one eye on the mountains and your ears to the winds…”

The man turned to scrutinize the highlands of the Reach. “You’re not wrong, elf. Though a traveler must always be wary of his surroundings in Skyrim.”

“Indeed,” Cyrion slipped his hand into the man’s quiver, relieving the guard of his arrows while he rattled on about the dangers of his country.

“…Can never be too careful.” The Nord shrugged it off. “Right,” he stopped before Markarth’s looming city gate, “stay out of trouble now.”

“But of course,” Cyrion flashed a smile stooped into a deep bow. The man scoffed and quickly turned to head back into the city, leaving the troublesome elf to walk off with his coin and every one of his arrows.

 

_The Ragged Flagon_

“Second time this week, Cyrion…” Tonilia criticized.

“I am _aware_ ,” Cyrion hissed. He dropped the stolen necklaces on her table.

Tonilia sighed and swept the jewelry into her pocket. “Don’t let Vex know you’ve been hitting the mead again.”

“It’s wine,” Cyrion growled.

“There’s no difference when it comes to influencing target choice though, is there?” Tonilia gave him an accusing look. “Just _had_ to go for something big, didn’t you? A simple lockbox would have sufficed.”

“So what if I tried to lift a gold statue of Dibella?”

Tonilia raised an eyebrow.

“…from the temple of Dibella.”

She groaned.

“Don’t give me that, do you have any idea how much one of those goes for in Solitude?”

She crossed her legs and sat back in her chair. “As the Guild’s Fence, yes, I know exactly how much one goes for.”

“You done or what?” Vex appeared in the doorway of the Flagon’s exit.

“Vex, always a pleasure,” Cyrion drawled.

She arched an eyebrow. “Really? Because I get tired of hearing rumors of a skinny little, blue-eyed wood elf getting caught by the guards.”

He ignored her quip and held up a finger. “That’s the thing about _rumors_ , Vex, you mustn’t believe everything you hear.

Vex remained expressionless. “You botched the job again, didn’t you?”

“No, no, I still came back with silver,” he protested, “did I reach quota? Perhaps not, but I didn’t botch it,” Cyrion explained.

Vex blinked. “You were arrested again.”

“I was not arrested,” Cyrion corrected. “I simply—”

Vex held a hand up. “I’m not interested in whatever excuse you’ve concocted. What I _am_ interested in, is how you make me look like an ass in front of the Guild every time you mess up a job I give you.”

“And Vipir doesn’t? Eventually a civilian will find the entrance to the Cistern if he keeps leaving the cemetery entrance open,” Cyrion pointed out.

“At least Vipir hasn’t lost his loot to the Solitude dungeons,” Vex countered.

Tonilia slid from her seat and left before the doomed argument turned volatile.

Cyrion held up a hand. “Okay, _that_ was not my fault.”

“Who has _that_ many stolen items on them at one time?? It took us two weeks to get it all back,” Vex griped.

“If Rune hadn’t left me, I—”

“If I remember correctly, Cyrion, it was _you_ that was late. And your tardiness nearly cost the others the mission.”

“They were the ones who left half the loot behind!” Cyrion stood from his seat. “Where do you think I was?? Out for a stroll enjoying the frigid scenery? No, I was back in the palace because Rune and Thrynn missed two of the rooms we’d been ordered to hit. If _they_ hadn’t been sloppy, _I_ wouldn’t have gotten caught!”

Vex scoffed. “It’s no wonder why no one wants to work with you, Cyrion. You’re aloof and insufferable. You snitch on your companions just to deflect blame from yourself and your focus is only ever on lining your own pockets,” Vex criticized.

Cyrion cocked his head. “Is there a code I’m supposed to be following? Because last time I checked, we didn’t have one.”

“We don’t,” Vex grumbled.

“Oh, then why do you act like I owe those imbeciles anything?”

“They are your Guildmates, you should treat them as such—”

“They are _anchors_ to me, Vex, and that is how they will be treated. They’ve done nothing to convince me otherwise. My attention is on the coin, just like the rest of these _thieves_ , only I do not pretend to be here for anything more. You look for honor where there is none, Vex. If it’s respect any of you hope to elicit from me, then go search elsewhere.”

Vex leered at him with hard brown eyes. “Perhaps someday you’ll get to work alone—"

“Not soon enough unfortunately.”

“—and you won’t have anyone else to blame but yourself when everything falls apart.” Vex crossed her arms and let her words hang in the stale silence between them.

The door opened, and Delvin wandered over to the bar and filled up a tankard. Upon seeing his two fuming colleagues, he raised his eyebrows and quietly sat at a table on the other side of the room.

“Give me my next job,” Cyrion kept his voice low.

Vex gave him a poisonous look, before digging in her belt and producing a contract. “A house in Windhelm needs to be cleared of its valuables.”

“Give me three days.” He reached for the paper.

Vex held it back. “This time remember the order, do job first, get drunk _second_ ,” she warned. Cyrion bit his lip, she’d known all along. “Now take this and go.” She allowed Cyrion to snatch the paper from her grasp and he left the dark tavern behind.

 

Outside Pinemoon Cave

Cyrion flinched awake. Smoke filled his nose. He groaned and tried to sit up. His headache pounded, and his body ached as he looked around. He had been crumpled against a large boulder, one of the last natural catches before the land fell away to the river. Lady Luck had to have been on his side; had he missed this rock, he surely would have drowned. Cyrion leaned against his stone savior and studied the slope above him. That was one hell of a fall, another miracle he hadn’t broken anything. He didn’t know what he’d done to gain Nocturnal’s favor but he’d thank her when he got back to the Guild.

Cyrion rubbed his face, feeling the layer of dirt and ash that covered his skin before wearily running a hand through his hair. Something on his arm caught his eye and Cyrion felt the blood drain from his face. A bloodied wound, raw and angry, plagued the inside of his forearm. Teeth marks ran around the outside of it. A bite. Blood oozed down his arm as his heartbeat raced.

A _bite_

A _vampire bite_ , and with it, a chance of contracting vampirism.

A thought hit him and Cyrion scrambled back up the hill. He had hidden his pack near the mouth of the cave. Finding the satchel right where he had left it, he rifled through it like a starving animal. As he came to the bottom of his bag he dug with increasing desperation. Food, knives, stolen trinkets, and potions ranging anywhere from Draught of the Knight to the increasingly useless 30 second Invisibility Potion were all in his possession, but not one Cure Disease.

Cyrion dropped to the ground, his face in his hands. Of all the diseases that he could have caught, _why_ did it have to be vampirism? If not cured within three days of contracting the virus, vampirism became incurable and the carrier would be turned into a vampire. It had taken him three days to get here from the nearest town. He swore loudly, his curse echoing into the valley. He glanced at the horizon; the sun was starting to set. It had been sunset when he entered the cave, meaning he had been unconscious for nearly 24 hours and one of his precious days had already been wasted.

Saved from injury only to become a vampire… _“Typical.”_ Nocturnal always did have a sick sense of humor. Cyrion threw everything back into his pack, collected his weapons that had been strewn about on the mountainside and set out for Dragon Bridge. If he kept up a swift pace, there may still be hope.


	3. Chapter 3

Cyrion grimaced as another cough racked his exhausted body. He leaned against a tree for support and groaned. Tips of the sun’s rays peaked over the tree tops as his third night was coming to an end. And there was still another mountain pass to cross before reaching Dragon Bridge. He was doomed.

Perhaps he wasn’t infected. Only a small percentage of bites yielded full-blown vampirism, right? He glanced at his arm. The edges of the wound were red and inflamed, the veins around it ran a thick blue up the rest of his arm. It had stopped bleeding, but rather than scabbing the blood had coagulated giving injury a repulsive shine to it. If it wasn’t vampirism, it was sure one hell of an infection.

A relentless set of coughs brought him to his knees. Cyrion grit his teeth but an attempt to stand rewarded him with a stabbing pain as if a dagger had just been slid between his ribs. Gasping, gravity returned him to the ground. Cyrion wrapped his arms around his sides. His mouth dried up like someone had packed it with cotton and his organs roiled within him. The shooting pain increased, spreading from his side to his entire body.

_Burning._

Something seared across the back of his neck. The silver necklace! He clawed at the chain of silver, burning the tips of his fingers and his face before he managed to cast off the troublesome metal. The pain ebbed for but a moment, then it returned. The burning sensation soon consumed him. Writhing in misery, Cyrion watched the greens and browns of the world turn a blood red. A blinding light overloaded his vision and seared through his skull. Cyrion screamed and clamped his hands over his eyes. He was still surrounded by the feeling of fire, and now, he was most certainly blinded.

His thrashing about ceased when his back thudded against the trunk of a tree, opting instead to curl up into a small ball, whimpering and praying that it would end soon.

 

_One Month Before_

Cyrion crashed through the trees, sliding under the thick foliage that surrounded Lake Ilinalta. He ducked beneath the branches of the shrub. It hadn’t seen him… right? Perhaps by Nocturnal’s grace the beast hadn’t seen him. Cyrion held as still as he could, his heart thudding wildly within his ribs. He’d checked the skies before leaving Falkreath, he’d been sure the monstrosity had flow west.

A concussive roar shook the trees around him and Cyrion stopped breathing. Apparently, he’d been wrong.

The city had become the most recent victim of the dragon epidemic that was sweeping this accursed land. Cyrion had arrived to absolute pandemonium as guards and panicked citizens raced through the streets, many running for their lives. Several buildings had been set ablaze but only a few had been entirely consumed by the flames. The rest the townsfolk fought to save them, hauling bucket after bucket of water from wells and nearby streams. Others sat crumpled with grief on the cobblestone beside loved ones who had lost their lives to the fire.

Cyrion could only stare at the chaos. “Wha— what happened?”

“Use your eyes,” a guard scolded, “it was a dragon attack.”

Cyrion had been too stunned to speak, simply remaining frozen by the city entrance instead. The tales of the great fire-breathing beasts were common in Skyrim as of late. He’d always taken the stories with a grain of salt, usually assuming the trembling Nords were exaggerating about the 100-foot-tall lizard that torched their entire herd in a single breath. But now… perhaps the accounts were not so hyperbolic.

Cyrion stood amongst the aftermath of one of the fabled monsters. He saw the glow of the flames and watched black specks of ash float through the air. He listened to the crackling of the fires and the wails of the people. He choked on the smoke and the smell of death that lingered in the streets. But ultimately, it had been annoyance that had moved him.

Vex had insisted he take this job over Delvin’s Riften heist, spouting that the pay would be infinitely better. Dragon or no dragon, he had a job to complete. He worked his way through the devastated streets, taking note of every soot-streaked survivor and every charred corpse that littered the cobblestones. The man he was after was a young Nord named Lod who had contacted the Guild with some job that was promised to be worth trekking this far south.

But his search came up fruitless until upon hearing his requests a trembling maid extended a finger to a crumbled body on the side of the road. The dragon hadn’t merely inconvenienced him, it had taken his informant and thus all hope for doing his job.

And if he wasn’t careful, it’d take his life.

The ground trembled and a huge thud followed the roar. It landed. He heard an enormous exhale and the trees above him burst into flame. _It had found him_. Cyrion leapt from his hiding place. He tore through the forest, his boots eating up the ground before him at unprecedented speeds. But it mattered not. The dragon had unfurled those awful wings and launched itself into the sky once more. Without having to even touch the earth, it followed him. Cyrion could hear the great breaths it took. Any moment he would be roasted like a side of salmon, he couldn’t outrun the monster.

Lake Ilinalta lay peacefully before him, its dark waters shimmering in the moonlight. _The Lake._ Cyrion altered his course, lungs burning, the muscles of his legs working hard to drive him to the shore. Just a bit further—

The dragon exhaled behind him and Cyrion felt the raw heat of the flames sear at his clothing and the exposed skin of his hands and face. Two more strides and he jumped, diving into the cool water of the lake to put out the burning.

 

North of Dragon Bridge

Cyrion cracked open an eye. He squinted at his surroundings. He could see! The red was gone and so was the burning. He shielded his eyes. Everything shone around him with brilliant clarity. Each blade of grass, each leaf on every tree seemed to reflect the light of the sun. He tried to groan but his throat was so dry nothing came out. The quiet bubbling of a nearby stream caught his attention.

_Water. ___

Cyrion shielded his eyes and looked for the source. A creek snaked lazily through the small valley below him. His heart fluttered as he wobbled to his feet. He made two steps down the hill before his legs turned to mush beneath him. He tumbled down the rocky slope, settling in a heap in the cool current.

The chill of the stream eased the burning of his skin. He brought a handful to his mouth, sighing a little as he swished the icy water within his cheeks. He took another drink. Then another. As good as it felt, the water did nothing to quench his thirst. Cyrion plunged his head into the stream to take great gulps of water, gagging when he felt something other than water slip down his throat. Hopefully it was just a leaf.

Yet the thirst remained.

Cyrion sat back on his knees, bewildered by his inability to put an end to this craving. Beyond the stream, nestled into some trees at the foot of the mountain, sat a small cabin. White smoke curled lazily out of its chimney. Suddenly Cyrion realized what this new thirst was.

And it wasn’t for water.

Dread filled the pit of his stomach. He stared at the little house, caught halfway between the ache the craving forced through him and the revulsion with what he needed to do to quench it. He straightened his armor, checked his belt for his daggers and awkwardly made his way to the front door. Did he knock? Did he break it down? Should he assault the residents within? He was certain to get an adverse reaction even if he explained his predicament. He was sure to be met with steel if, divines forbid, he confessed to being a… _bloodsucker_. That’s how he would’ve reacted.

Either way, it was going to be messy. He took a deep breath, gripped his dagger in one hand and reached for the door handle with the other. Ignoring the fact he had no plan, backup or otherwise for the situation, Cyrion turned the knob and walked in.

Nocturnal had to have been rolling with laughter.


	4. Chapter 4

The Cistern

Cyrion slapped the leather pouch that contained the silver necklace on a table. “That buyer better have a _damn_ good price for this.”

Brynjolf looked startled. “Somethin’ go wrong, Dark-Stone?”

Cyrion scoffed. “You could say that.” It’d taken him nearly an hour to wash all the blood from his armor after his run-in with the hunter in the cabin. And another to find where he had thrown the silver necklace. Forgetting his new aversion to the metal, he had promptly burned his fingers the moment his skin came into contact with it. Spitting and swearing, he’d wrapped the necklace in a cloth from the cabin and dropped it in a leather pouch.

The week of travel that had followed somehow managed to be even more loathsome than traversing this frozen wasteland usually was.

“Have to take it up with Vex,”

“ _Certainly_ ,” Cyrion marched through the Cistern and flung the door to the Ragged Flagon wide.

Vex looked annoyed glancing up from her meal. “You done or what?”

“Tell me who your buyer is,” Cyrion demanded.

“You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

“Your buyer for _this_!” Cyrion sent the leather pouch skittering across the table to her plate. “I’ll be speaking to him _myself_.”

“I can’t do that.”

“And _why_ is that, Vex?” Cyrion twisted his tone with rage.

Vex crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m not about to let you storm in and ruin the relationship of one of my buyers just because an injustice has you foaming at the mouth.”

“An _injustice_? You think a simple injustice has me so irate, Vex??” Cyrion sputtered. “I don’t know your definition of injustice, but this is mine.” He hooked a finger under his upper lip and pulled to expose one of his fangs.

Vex’s fork clattered to the table. “ _Talos almighty_ …”

“Do you know why the sod didn’t want to go after the silver himself?? Because the cave it rested within was brimming with _vampires_! So I do believe I deserve a word with this _honorable buyer_ of yours as to inquire if he knew as much before sending one of us in there after it.”

“…You were bitten…” Vex regarded him with a cautious kind of awe.

“Why, Vex, you usually aren’t this slow,” Cyrion slandered. “What was your first hint? The new red iridescence in my irises or the pallor of my skin? Or did you really need to see the fangs to solve the riddle?”

Vex groaned and sat back in her chair. “Well it hasn’t improved that nasty personality of yours.” Her eyes traced him from top to bottom. “There are many tales of vampires… of what a curse it is for those the virus has afflicted, I never really paid them much heed… and now with one standing before me, I find myself quite speechless.”

“I am your despicable Guildmate still, Vex. Do not treat me as something to gawk at.”

Vex straightened a little. “And you believe you deserve to be compensated for this… mishap?”

Cyrion set his hands on the table. “You haven’t the faintest idea, the _hell_ through which I have traveled this past week,” Cyrion sneered, “and for once I’m not talking about roads of your wretched country.”

Vex sighed and Cyrion almost thought he saw a glimmer of sympathy in her expression, but it was gone as quickly as it came. “Fine. I’ll give you my buyer, on _one_ condition.”

“Careful Vex, my humor isn’t nearly as forgiving these days…” Cyrion warned.

“You go talk to Sibbi Black-Briar before you leave.”

Cyrion straightened. “And what part of holding a conversation with Maven’s brat did you think would interest me?”

“He’s in the Riften jail. We caught wind from some sap at the Bee and Barb that Sibbi is planning to sell one of the family’s horses, Frost… without Maven’s consent. And naturally she wants us to investigate.”

“And naturally we must listen to Guildmaster Maven at all costs.” Cyrion rolled his eyes. “That vile woman should not be catered to no matter how much clout she has with the Jarl.”

“Nor the coin she pays us?” Vex challenged.

Cyrion gestured around him at the rundown tavern. “And yet the Guild still crumbles despite her _charity_.”

“Just go. I’m sure you’ll get coin out of it.”

Cyrion groaned but made his way to the door. “What’s the hurry, Vex? Sibbi isn’t going anywhere.” The beginning pangs of thirst hit his stomach.

_And it’s not like my troubles can get any worse…_

 

Riften Jail

“Hey, you’re not supposed to be here.” A guard stood from his stool.

“It’s alright, I’m allowed in here,” Cyrion assured him with a small smile.

“Oh, okay then.” The guard sat back down and Cyrion strolled down the hallway of iron bars stopping at a particularly cushy-looking jail cell.

Sibbi sat up from his place on his cot. “Have you come to gawk at me or is this a social call?” Sibbi quipped.

“Why not both?” Cyrion returned his foul tone. “I’ve put myself in your sorry presence because I’ve been made aware that you’ve been trying to sell Frost as of late.”

The young Black-Briar looked smug. “Perhaps… Did Louis Letrush send you?”

“Who else?” Cyrion asked, taking the hint Sibbi had provided him.

“He wants his horse, I imagine? I was going to deliver Frost to him but as you can see it didn’t work out. The problem is, he belongs to the estate and, consequently, my mother Maven.”

“You sold a horse that wasn’t yours to sell?”

Sibbi gave him an indignant sneer. “And how many times have you sold something that wasn’t yours, thief?”

Cyrion crossed his arms. “But which one of us is behind bars?” Cyrion smirked and once satisfied he’d won the squabble, he continued. “And Letrush still expects you to deliver?”

Sibbi held up a finger. “Tell you what, if you steal the papers and deliver Frost for me and I’ll give you the second half of the payment,” Sibbi looked awfully proud of the offer.

“You know… I think Maven would pay a lot more than that for this information.”

Sibbi’s expression soured. “Oh sure, take advantage of the guy in jail. _Fine_ , there’s an extra stash in the lodge. Here’s the key.”

“Wonderful. Have fun with your iron bars, Sibbi.” Cyrion didn’t stay long enough to hear Sibbi’s retort.

 

The Ragged Flagon

“…Then he wanted me to steal the horse from the estate for him,” Cyrion finished. He kept the bit about him now having a key to a stash of valuables in Maven’s basement to himself. “Now if someone else wanted to inform the old hag of her son’s plots, I need to be off.” He clapped his hands together, rubbing them in mock anticipation. “Now, Vex, where can I find your buyer.”

Vex eyed him suspiciously. “Remember, you can’t kill anyone or you forfeit the payment,” Vex crossed her arms. “Or are you forgetting that we don’t operate like the Dark Brotherhood?”

“What makes you think I’m going to kill him?” Cyrion asked.

“Seriously, Dark-Stone? I haven’t seen you this worked up in years. Why do you think I made you do a side errand first?”

“Fine. I solemnly swear, under Nocturnal’s watch, that I will not kill your buyer.” _This time_ …

Vex frowned. “That really doesn’t help but, a deal’s a deal: the buyer is in Whiterun.”

 

Whiterun

“Welcome to Arcadia’s Cauldron, we sell tonics, potions…” The woman behind the counter smiled as he walked in.

“Right, I’m just here for the alchemy lab.” Cyrion b-lined for the little table in the corner of the shop.

“My, you look pale,” she noticed aloud. “Could be Ataxia, it’s quite the problem back home in Cyrodiil,” the woman offered helpfully.

“No, I’m quite sure that it’s not.” Cyrion didn’t even look up. His stomach had been busy tying itself in knots with thirst ever since he’d passed the Battle-Born’s farms. The broad daylight did little to help. No matter how many layers he wore, his blood seemed to boil beneath his skin. The rays of the sun were much too bright for his new vision, requiring him to squint in an effort to not be blinded.

“… I’ve got cures for all ailments,” she said.

He continued sprinkling in ingredients. “Not _all_ ailments…” Cyrion muttered under his breath. He leaned back as his health potion poofed itself to fruition and collected the contents into a red bottle he’d grabbed off the shelf. To avoid taking from some unsuspecting wretch’s neck, Cyrion had been knocking back health potions like a Stormcloak did mead. The tonic eased the aches of thirst even if that ease was exceedingly temporary.

He popped on a cork and stowed the potion in his belt and made his way toward the door.

“Come back any time if you need a remedy!” the shop owner called after him.

Cyrion made his way to The Drunken Huntsman, locating a wealthy-looking Redguard citizen sitting off to one side of the bar. The man shifted in his seat, eyes darting around tavern like he was expecting someone. Cyrion groaned, this was Vex’s buyer alright.

The man’s eyes widened when he approached, quickly taking in his Thieves Guild armor. “You’re not Vex…” the man chided.

“Such an astute observation.” Cyrion sat down without invitation. “And you are?”

The Redguard looked put out. “I’m Nazeem. I, I own Chillfurrow Farm, you see. A _very_ successful business,” he added, chuckling to himself, “Obviously…”

“It isn’t wise to brag about your riches to a _thief_ ,” Cyrion cautioned.

Nazeem squirmed in his chair.

“Now I imagine your wealth played a part as to why you hired the Guild to retrieve a silver trinket for you?” Cyrion asked, keeping his tone dull.

Nazeem waved it off. “ _Naturally_ , and well I actually advise the Jarl on political matters. My input is invaluable, of course. So, I haven’t the time to go wandering off on some silly adventures.”

“Why would you need such a necklace if it wasn’t even worth finding yourself?”

“Why? Well, the, the worth of such a necklace, and its likeness has probably never been seen before and—oh I don’t have to explain myself to you!” Nazeem snapped.

“Relax, I’m simply verifying that your request wasn’t fueled by cowardice,” Cyrion continued.

“Cowardice?? Why, I never—”

“Are you aware of the location and features of Pinemoon Cave?” Cyrion kept his eyes locked on the irritating nobleman and enjoyed the way his gaze rattled the man’s nerves.

“I, I can’t really say that I am.” He gave a nervous laugh. “My… I don’t like those eyes of yours… they uh, they have a bad hunger about them.”

“Or that the cave itself was inhabited by vampires?”

“Vampires?! How—?”

“You have the payment for the retrieval of this necklace, I presume?”

“Yes, yes but—”

“Now double it.”

“Double it?!” Nazeem yelped.

“Did you not just finish bragging to me about your wealth? Double it before I have to raise my voice,” Cyrion demanded.

“You can’t do that!”

Cyrion smirked. “Triple it.”

“The nerve! Can—"

“I tack on more? Certainly.”

“ _Alright_ ,” Nazeem said, his voice becoming shrill. “Alright, fine! I’ll pay you double—”

“Triple,” Cyrion corrected.

“—Triple then!” Nazeem blathered. “Triple, you _fiend_. You criminal, you—”

Cyrion raised an eyebrow. “Thief?” He held up the necklace’s leather pouch. “Give me the coin, Nazeem.”

Nazeem set three coin purses on the table that Cyrion swiftly collected. He tossed the leather pouch to Nazeem, which the Redguard barely caught. “We are done here.” Cyrion stood to leave.

“You’ll pay for this,” Nazeem growled.

Cyrion smiled. “Don’t contact the Guild again. Good day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you get to the Cloud District? Oh, what am I saying, of course you don't.


	5. Chapter 5

Whiterun

Cyrion sighed and stared up at the dark expanse above him, glittering bright with stars. Tonight was particularly clear, giving way not only to the lights of the night but to the great auroras that appeared like vibrant ribbons that the Divines had trailed through the sky.

Hiding amongst the gables of the vast roof of Dragonsreach, he’d guaranteed himself silence. At least until he heard some pebbles clatter down the wooden shingles behind him. Cyrion slipped his dagger from its sheath and silently rose to his feet, ears trained for another sound.

“Cyrion, put down the knife,” a voice called.

_Tonilia?_

Cyrion dropped his guard but kept his dagger in his hand as Tonilia appeared over one of the peaks of the roof.

“Thought I might find you up here.” She grinned a bit.

Cyrion sheathed his dagger. “What are you doing in Whiterun?”

“I’m on my own job but since we still hadn’t heard back from you I figured I’d keep an eye out while I was here.”

“How’d you know I was up here?”

Tonilia plopped down beside him. “I didn’t. I knew you’d probably hear me coming before I knew where you were and decided to take precautions. I’ve been yelling that on rooftops all night.” She chuckled and turned her gaze to the view, first to the city and wilds laid out below them, then to stars and wonders of the heavens above. “But the real question is, why are _you_ still in Whiterun?”

Cyrion huffed and crossed his legs. “Job’s done, at least… Found the little weasel easy enough and about halfway through our conversation I realized the blathering idiot was too naïve to have any real ulterior motive… no real guilt. Though he’s never coming back to us again.” He allowed a small smile to curl the corners of his lips. “I ousted two extra bags of coin off him.”

He could almost hear Tonilia rolling her eyes. “And you wonder why Vex doesn’t let you do personal deals?” She shook her head. “But it’s been four days, why haven’t you returned? You got what you came for, did you not?”

But rather than his answer, the silence was filled by the crickets and soft whisper of the wind.

“… Did Vex tell you?” Cyrion was ashamed of how small his voice sounded. He cleared his throat. “Did she tell you why I insisted upon meeting this buyer?”

“Nothing beyond ‘he’s being a stubborn ass and I didn’t feel like talking him out of it this time’.”

Yup. That was Vex for you, good for nothing but complaining.

Cyrion rubbed the bridge of his nose. _Might as well…_ “Tonilia, how many wood elves do you know with blue eyes?”

She scoffed. “Only you. Elves don’t have blue eyes they have—”

He locked eyes with her for the first time since she’d arrived.

“—red…” Tonilia’s own brown eyes widened and her statement trailed off. “So, you uh…”

“Drink blood now, to put it tersely.”

Tonilia’s surprise wore off rather quickly. “Now _that_ I never saw coming. You know, if I’d had to place a bet on who would walk into the Cistern with fangs I would’ve put money on Sapphire to be honest.”

Cyrion stared at her. “You seem to have a rather light view on vampirism.”

She shrugged. “Believe me, we’ve had worse in the Guild. So, is it all it’s cracked up to be?”

“Tonilia, I didn’t _want_ this,” Cyrion sneered. “I was _infected_ doing a job that some fool had asked of us simply so that he could have some exotic silver decorating his throat!” He rose to his feet. “And now, I am stuck with this curse for the rest of my days while all he lost in the trade was a few extra bags of gold!”

She merely sighed. “Well, have you thought about seeing a healer or a priest about it?”

Cyrion scoffed and returned his gaze to the view of Whiterun.

“Or have you not gotten past the self-pity phase yet?” Tonilia quipped.

“Oh, my apologies, are my stages of grief not moving fast enough for you?”

Tonilia tapped her chin, mocking thoughtfulness. “I seem to recall, Cyrion, that it was you who berated members of the Guild who- how did you put it- ‘would rather wallow in complaints than set about making changes for their betterment’? With wisdom such as that, you should simply quit thieving and become a poet. Maybe some artistic enlightenment will help cure your obnoxious attitude.”

“And they make a potion that cures vampirism, do they?” Cyrion growled.

“If you’d actually mount a search, you might find one for hypocrisy as well.”

He could not sit next to this woman any longer. He rose to his feet and stalked as far away from her as the narrow roof would let him. “Then where do you suggest I look, Tonilia? Because I have yet to be made aware that such a potion exists.”

“If not an alchemist, then perhaps a mage. There’s a vast amount of research in the College—”

“Tonilia, I swear on the Nine, if you send me after a spell-caster…”

“Ah yes, I ‘forgot’ about your overwhelming hatred for mages.”

“It’s valid.”

She snorted and shook her head. “At the moment, it’s just another _excuse_.”

“You seriously believe that I haven’t thought about looking for a way to change back? I’ve been up here for hours scheming and self-pitying just fine before you ruined my silence. But you, just like the rest of the Guild, won’t leave me alone,” he criticized.

“Ah, so that’s what’s wrong,” Tonilia chided. “What? You getting tired of our cozy little family?

“Family is not who you surround yourself with when turmoil ravages your life,” Cyrion said, crossing his arms.

“When your heart aches and your world has filled with pain, family is exactly who you surround yourself with.” Tonilia held his gaze.

“I’m heading out.” He scooped up his quiver and bow and slung them over his shoulder.

“To where?”

“Not the Cistern,” Cyrion decided.

“What am I to tell Vex?”

“That I’m making a bit of extra coin on the side. Here,” he tossed one of the bags of gold from Nazeem at her feet, “now she has no reason to send for me. Good bye, Tonilia.”

“See you in the shadows, Dark-Stone?”

“Not likely.” Cyrion slid down the steep roof to begin his decent and left Tonilia with the stars all to herself.

 

The Temple of Kynerath

“Hello, child of Kynerath. Are you in need of healing?” the priestess asked.

“No.” _Could she tell?_ “I’m just… looking.” He continued to gawk at the ornate carvings in the ceiling’s arches as if to prove his point.

But the priestess simply smiled. “The temple is open to all visitors.”

Cyrion ducked her gaze and made his way to the small stone shrine that sat peacefully on its table near the back wall. As soon as the sun had made its appearance over the eastern mountains he’d taken to his stash of health potions, leaving them empty by noon.

Light cascaded in from the temple’s stain glass windows, bathing the room in the cool colors of spring. Pools that were little more than tiled puddles surrounded a mosaic of a dove in the center of floor. Clusters of ivy were draped along the wooden pillars and arches. A light scent of lilac hung in the air. The temple may not be the most beautiful place in Skyrim, but it did its damnedest to be the most serene.

If it hadn’t been for the moans of the ailing, that is.

A soldier lay to his left groaning about an arrow wound while another priestess tried to tend to a sickly old woman.

Cyrion didn’t spare them a glance. He took a deep breath and laid a hand on the purple-hued carving. Tendrils of indigo swirled around his body, the light leaping in and out of his flesh. A fresh rush came over him, like he’d just taken a lungful of crisp mountain air or submersed himself in a cool pond. The pangs of thirst subsided from his system, and the sunlight’s sting diminished from his eyes and skin. But before the glee could spread to his smile, the blessing receded and the symptoms of Sanguinare Vampiris returned with a vengeance.

Red stained his vision. His breath hitched, and the pain of his headache came roaring back to life, the agony scattering his thoughts like a flock of ravens. Cyrion caught the corner of the table before the stabbing sensation in his side brought him to the floor. He lowered himself to cold tile and resisted the urge to curl up in a ball.

_That went poorly._

Cyrion trembled as he clenched his fists and suppressed a groan as pain rippled through him. If he didn’t do something, he would soon join the rest invalids. A red bottle caught his attention. A large health potion waited patiently beside a vase of lilac, likely for use for the healers.

Or a desperate vampire.

The priestess turned her back on him and Cyrion popped the cork and downed the potion in several gulps and the waves of agony dulled down to a throb. He coaxed his breathing back to normal. Cyrion clamped a hand on the shrine’s table and pulled himself to his feet, trying to scrape together what little pride he could muster after having collapsed on the temple floor.

He straightened his armor and spotted another potion near a pillar. Then another beside a bench. And several taking up shelves in another room. His smirk stretched from ear to pointed ear. Sitting right out in the open, they were just _begging_ to be stolen. Kynerath shall provide, indeed.

 

With his pack full, Cyrion made his way to the market.

“Do you have anything even _remotely_ fresh?” A familiarly abrasive voice asked. Nazeem dropped a cabbage back onto the vendor’s stand with disdain written all over his expression. But upon seeing a leering Bosmer in Guild armor, the nobleman kept walking.

The Nord woman from the stand followed Nazeem’s line of sight to find her rescuer. She smiled and hurried to him. “It’s a fine day with you around.”

Cyrion arched an eyebrow.

The woman cleared her throat and straightened the skirts of her blue dress, having some of the wind taken from her sails. She extended a hand. “Um, I just wanted to thank you for ridding me of that nuisance. I’m Ysolda.”

He made the mistake of asking her of her purpose in Whiterun’s marketplace and in turn was subjected to the story of her lifelong quest to become a successful merchant.

“—So you see I just need a mammoth tusk to trade with the Khajiit caravans.”

Cyrion’s attention refocused when he realized she’d addressed him. “…You, you need a mammoth tusk?”

“Please, in return, I can teach you some tips of the trade, show you how to get the best deal,” she offered. “It may save you some money someday.”

Not something he was in desperate need of, but the offer wasn’t bad. Mammoth tusks weren’t particularly hard to find in Skyrim, with documented mammoth herds in nearly every hold. _Wasn’t there a mammoth tusk in Dragonsreach?_ He seemed to recall seeing one collecting dust on a shelf last time he was snooping around the Jarl’s quarters. “Alright, I’ll do it.” He left before he could hear her response.

The guards of the palace always eyed him with such contempt whenever he visited Dragonsreach. Not an uncommon sight. A thief in the Jarl’s house was never something to be wished for, but until they had evidence that said otherwise, he was an innocent visitor. Drove a couple of the yellow-and-iron clad Nords mad, but they never saw him make his lifts.

The tusk was no different. Despite its size, he’d stuffed the ivory in his pack before the guards had realized he was upstairs

He returned to Ysolda only to find another man handing her a large purple bottle and receiving gold in return. The man hurried away from her stall as Ysolda quickly stashed the bottle somewhere. Her face lit up when she saw the mammoth tusk in his hands.

“Wonderful! Oh I am so—”

“What was that?” Cyrion cut her off.

Ysolda blinked. “What was what?”

“What did you just pay him for?”

“Oh…” Red blushed across her cheeks. “That, that was nothing.”

“Will the guards see it as nothing? Or shall we just keep this little secret between us?” Cyrion pressed.

“No, no need for that,” she said quickly. “It’s Sleeping Tree Sap. I pay anyone who can find me bottles.”

“It’s a potion?” Cyrion ventured.

“It’s a drug.” Ysolda scowled at his look of surprise. “All I know is that it makes you feel as healthy as a cave troll but as slow as a drunk horker, and that it fetches good coin,” she added sheepishly.

Cyrion stared at her. “How much?”

“Wait, what?”

“Are you hard of hearing, dear merchant? How much for a bottle?”

“100 septims.”

“Done.” He held up some gold from his belt.

Ysolda shook off her surprise. “Alright then. Here you are.” She handed him a purple bottle. “Thanks again,” she called as he turned to leave, “for everything.”

“Think nothing of it,” Cyrion replied dully for his interest was in his new purchase.


End file.
